A Burning Survival
by acousticlegend23
Summary: The Hunger Games from Peeta's perspective. I know there are a lot of these but give it a try. Updates coming soon!
1. Chapter 1

Peeta's Perspective

Conditioned into waking up at the very sound of my mother's voice, I'm up. The only thing is, today it's not my mother's voice that wakes me. Rather, it's my father's soft whispers that coax me into leaving my bed. As he leaves, I prop myself on my elbow and look out my window. The muted orange of dawn is slowly rising above the horizon. It's early.

Thinking it's just like any other day, I begin my routine of washing up, dressing and frosting the pastries of my father's bakery before school but just as soon as I clear my face of the night's traces, I see the neat clothes on my bed. This is the day of the reaping.

With all my willpower, I force it to the recesses of my mind and put on the usual attire before making my way to my father who, by now, is in the kitchen of the bakery. Unlike the regular, average day, everyone is still asleep so I carefully creep around my brothers' beds and quietly walk past my parents' room – the only place where my resting mother, in my eyes, is a creature of unique beauty. Even though she has only ever been seen with her eyebrows almost tattooed intimidatingly downwards angrily at nearly everyone who passes by and only heard through her rough shouts and screams, I know she's just in love. It must be difficult loving someone who loves someone else and having everyone around her know about it. But, of course, I know how this feels. It is but a mere curse passed down a generation.

I enter the bakery and see my father already hard at work. He looks at me and wordlessly calls me over to join him. Once a year, there is a space of time that belongs to my father and I. Just us alone in the bakery: my father making all sorts of pastries and me frosting them with a careful and steady hand. As a child, I loved to draw but my mother discouraged it. My father took pity on me and instead had me frost his cupcakes and convinced my mother it would be good for the business. On a daily basis, I would be frosting in the middle of the hustle and bustle of a regular District 12 morning but, once a year, my father and I can work silently in solitude together. It is because of these few hours once a year that almost balances the day's coming events.

We work silently for the next few hours. The sun rises higher into the sky by the time I finish frosting the last cupcake and my father looks up and smiles sadly, "Happy Hunger Games, son."

As a child, I would have gladly smiled back because I never knew what it meant. It was like saying "Merry Christmas." But now as a teenager older than his years, smiling is the only way I keep my father hopeful that his son will be spared another year. "Happy hunger games, dad."

It's ten o'clock in the morning when the movements of still tired family members become even slightly audible. It will still be a while before their day really begins.

I am cleaning my workspace meticulously while my father puts on a new display of pastries just for today when she walks in.

Katniss Everdeen. She makes a quick and simple trade with my father of six fish for some freshly baked bread while her companion, Gale Hawthorne, looks around the shop, waiting. And there I am… staring. Jealously is released into my bloodstream like adrenaline in the moment of attack as I look intently at Gale and then at Katniss. Her hair, in her usual braid, flows down her back and her beauty radiates regardless of her own obliviousness. Every time I see her, my mind flashbacks me to the day I heard her sing and how happy she was doing it. But these days, it seems like she hasn't sung in a long time – and I don't blame her. But what I would give to hear her sing just one more time.

They, each with a loaf of bread in their hands, thank my father for the trade. She glances over at me, nods her head and walks away. Does she know how much eye contact for mere seconds can mean to me? The answer is no.

"Special day like this, I would've thought I might get squirrel." My father says, only slightly annoyed but still smiling. My father's guilty pleasure is Katniss' squirrels – the ones that she shoots precisely in the eye. With precise aim, she is not only beautiful but talented and a survivor.

"Morning," my brothers yawn, interrupting the growing thoughts of admiration in my head, as they begin their chores. My mother follows closely behind and begins making our Reaping breakfast. It is the only day my mother refrains from screaming or shouting. But the frown is still there.

We sit down at the table quietly. Every year it's the same empty, fearful silence that blankets the table as we eat. Who knows? This may be our last meal together as a family. Still, no one speaks. To me, it is an unbearable muteness that causes me to feel such agonizing pain inside. If this were your last meal with your family, wouldn't you want to treasure the time left? But then, this is all we know. Every day, we fear for our lives. Yes, we're slightly better off than those who live in the Seam, but not by much.

We finish the meal but my mother lets us off and cleans up by herself. She tells us to get ready. I make my way to the room I share with my brothers, both of whom are older than me. We all dress in yet another empty silence. While Chaff has successfully survived the seven excruciating years of eligibility, Yarro and I are still in the game. We still fear for our lives.

I button my shirt and comb my hair. I put my shoes on and look at myself one more time in the mirror. Will this be the day? I can't force this thought into the far corners of my mind anymore. I sit on my bed while my brothers still get ready and I think what if it's one of us? What if, for the next few weeks, one of us will be killed painfully, slowly for my family and all of Panem to see?

"It will be okay, Peeta." Chaff sits next to me as he buttons his shirt. Easy for him to say: he's out of the game. "Whatever happens, happens. Keep your chin up." He claps me on the back and heads out of the room. We Mellark men can feel as much and get as emotional as we want but expression isn't our forte. I know he means well, but he just makes me feel worse.

"The odds are in our favor. I'm sure of it," Yarro says after a while but his voice drips in doubt. He's trying so hard to convince himself more than he's trying to convince me. We sit together not saying anything more. We let the thought of surviving sink in.

"Boys, we have to get going!" my father calls. We stand up and look at each other. He leaves. I look at the room one more time as if it were my last. My sheets are folded neatly on my bed and the floor surrounding my area is clean. The picture of my family on my bedside table is polished. I close the curtains, pause at the door and then close it. If I am picked, when will I sleep comfortably again?

I follow my father's voice and meet him at the dining area of our humble abode where he places my frosted cupcakes on the table ready for us to eat later as celebration for another homecoming. It is this single gesture, repeated each year, that gives me a single ray of hope to hold on to as we head for the square.

It's one o'clock. Everyone, dressed in their very best, is moving together towards the square like sheep in a herd. _Too bad our shepherd is corrupt_, I think. As we get closer, the roped areas can be seen: the single barrier between eligibility and safety. Just before Yarro and I separate from the rest of our family, my mother pulls gently at my arm and brushes out the invisible wrinkles of my clothing. She holds me at arm's length while her worried eyes penetrate mine. It is the only time of year, I pity her. It is the only time I feel like she really loves us and is genuinely scared of losing us but she doesn't hug me. She passes me onto my father instead and repeats her yearly routine with Yarro. My father puts his arm around me and squeezes my shoulders for luck. He looks at me and I see my eyes in his.

"I'll see you afterwards alright?" He whispers in my ear. He's nervous. I can hear it in his voice. I nod.

They join the rest of the families and hold tightly to one another. It sickens me to see that, embedded with those who have so much to lose after this single announcement, there are people here for the amusement and entertainment of taking bets on those who are to fight to the death, judging them on their reactions after being picked. Supporters of the Capitol, maybe? No. Just people who are conditioned into making the best of the Hunger Games because it's all we can do. It's all we know but I still hate them.

I find myself closed off by other nervous and food deprived sixteen year old bodies. I search the crowd for my brother and see him in the front with the other eighteen year olds. He doesn't look back.

The temporary stage set up before the Justice Building holds three chairs, a podium and two large glass balls. Somewhere in the boys' one lies my name. May the odds be ever in my favor.

Mayor Undersee and District 12's escort, Effie Trinket, sit in two of the three chairs. I begin to wonder if Effie Trinket is aware of how ridiculous she looks in her pinkish hair and spring green suit. Apparently, it's "fashionable" along with her funny sounding Capitol accent which no one can help but imitate every now and then. She is stick thin but supposedly, instead of that showing deprivation, poverty and the inability to sustain oneself, it is attractive. If only that were really true.

The clock strikes two. Mayor Undersee steps up to the podium and begins to tell the same story told every year about the history of Panem. The chain of events that leads us up to this moment and at this time is a tragic one involving rebellion, oppression and ultimate failure of the people. Here we are, forced into being mere pawns in a losing game. No matter what we do, there's nothing we can do to win. Forced into watching the Games, we see our children kill and die. Each year, we are reminded torturously of the Capitol's power and they still expect us to treat it as a sporting event making us "compete" with other districts. It is disgraceful.

Coming to the end of the story he unsuccessfully attempts to convince even himself, let alone us, that this is a time of repentance and for thanks. Yeah, thanks for not killing us all at once with a bomb. No, just killing slowly and painfully through starvation. Yeah, thanks.

He calls the name of the only surviving victor, Haymitch Abernathy who, as usual, is drunk and embarrassing himself on stage. It's no wonder we haven't had a District 12 victor in a while. Victors become mentors and with a drunken one like Haymitch, I can only begin mourning the two kids entering this year.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" Effie Trinket's bubbly voice breaks my thoughts. "I am so happy to be District 12's escort once again. It is certainly an honor." She smiles unconvincingly. Of course she's "happy". She has to represent a district that loses every year and has Haymitch as a victor. Poor girl.

It's time for the drawing. She, as always, begins with the girls' bowl of names. Somewhere in there is Katniss' name. I wonder how many times it has been entered in this year.

Effie Trinket's hand dives into the bowl, swims around for a bit and jumps up with a single strip of paper. I feel nauseous. What if it's Katniss? Would I have to watch her die this year? She'll never know how I feel about her. Here I am worrying about my own emotional turmoil when I should be listening for the poor tribute this year. But no matter how drowned in my own thoughts I may be, the unmistakable name that is read aloud does not fail to yank me out of them.

"Primrose Everdeen!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**

Chapter 2

Hushed murmurs fill the air. Primrose Everdeen, the blonde haired, fair skinned girl whom everyone adores, has been chosen to die. Shock registers but doesn't sink in and then I see her. Her face is as white as a sheet of paper and her clenched fists are at her sides as she takes small steps toward the stage. She's passing the sixteen year old rows now and I see Katniss who, out of all of us in the crowd, has been hit the worst.

Jaw dropped, eyes wide and blood-drained, she is absent. I know she's thinking there must be a mistake. We're all thinking it. It is this particular event that upsets people because sending a twelve year old into the Games is unfair to say the least. You might as well shoot her on the spot – at least it'll be a quick death. She stares at the little girl she's protected and cares for more than her own life. Her eyes follow the one she would do anything for…but this time there's nothing that can be done. But knowing Katniss, she would find a way.

"Prim!" she screams as she makes her way through a crowd that has already parted for her like the red sea. She runs toward Prim who is already close to the stage and about to mount the steps. I see her take a defensive stance as she pushes Prim behind her with one swift motion and uses her body as a shield. "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" her voice, clearer than the sky, emanates through all of District 12.

This is a rarity in our community. No one has ever volunteered as tribute in decades. It's a death sentence. And yet, I'm not at all shocked or surprised. But my heart aches for the girl with the braid in the beautiful blue dress. I find myself already mourning the only girl I've loved and looking to the next coming weeks where I will have to watch her battle for her life. She's done it for so long already but this? I don't know about this. Watching previous games, we all know the relentless nature of the Gamemakers. If they want you dead, you will die.

There's some confusion on the stage. It seems the protocol for things like this… well, when have we ever had a situation in which a girl would step in to protect her sister? In my life time - never. The rule, however, is that once both tributes are chosen, only then do others volunteer. But, again, that hasn't happened in quite some time. While, in other districts, volunteering is somewhat of an honor where people even train for this big event, the only way we can see it is as a suicide mission.

"Lovely!" squeals Effie Trinket. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um…" even she, herself, is unsure.

"What does it matter?" says the mayor. He looks at her with a pained expression and I know, we all know, that the girl with the braided hair won't step down anyhow. Why make a bigger fuss? "What does it matter?" he repeats. "Let her come forward."

Prim's screams pierce the tense and suspenseful atmosphere. She tries to hang on to Katniss, tries to stop the girl from doing it. "No, Katniss! No! You can't go!"

I'm too far away from the stage to hear her reply but I'm sure she's telling her to let go. Her face is devoid of any emotion but I know deep inside, she's falling apart but she's right in not showing it. Even here at the reaping, this is when you start collecting sponsors and they can potentially save you through their donations and gifts to be given in the arena.

Gale, who is already at the front near my brother, moves forward and quickly picks up the girl and looks to be whispering something to Katniss before taking Prim away. His face is harder than steel and he's focusing all of his attention at keeping the flailing Prim at bay but under that rock of an expression, we all know he is dying inside. I wonder if he's dying as much as I am. Maybe more.

"Well, bravo!" says Effie Trinket in her ridiculous Capitol accent, with glee. "That's the spirit of the Games!" You can tell she's more than happy now that there's a little more drama and action in her district. "What's your name?"

She hesitates, staring out into the crowd but obviously avoiding the general direction of her mother and her sister, "Katniss Everdeen,"

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we?" Of course, Capitol folk won't understand. They probably don't know the true meaning of family what with their obsession with looks and flaunting their luxurious lives. "Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!"

But no one claps. No, that would be dishonorable and supportive of the Capitol. No. We do not agree. I do not agree. I think I'm the only one that starts the gesture of raising three middle fingers of my left hand to my lips and holding it out to Katniss but, as I look around, we are all doing it together. United, we stand but we just don't have the power to walk just yet. It is the only way we say our silent goodbyes and thanks to someone who is far more powerful than she knows. She doesn't know the effect she can have.

I look deep into her eyes even though she does not see me. I know she understands and is greatly appreciative of the gesture but I also know she needs to express emotion. I can see it in her eyes.

"Look at her. Look at this one!" hollers Haymitch as he stumbles across the stage. He throws an arm around her shoulders and shouts, "I like her! Lots of…spunk! More than you!" he points at us and then at the camera, "More than you!" And just as he opens his mouth to continue, he falls and knocks himself unconscious. Good luck to you Katniss Everdeen.

He is whisked away on a stretcher and Effie begins once again, "What an exciting day!" She attempts to straighten her wig that has very obviously moved rightward. "But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute!" She holds her hair as she moves the boys' bowl where, somewhere in the midst of a sea of names, I…

"Peeta Mellark!"

My jaw drops. My body stiffens. My throat clogs up. _It's me. I am this year's tribute. Why was that faster than Prim's picking? It's me? It's me. _A few blank moments and then: _Move, _I think to myself. One foot, then the other and then the other. My feet feel like bricks and it takes every ounce of energy in my body to get to that stage. I make my way up to the podium, my mind blank. I pass all of the sixteen and seventeen year olds. My brother's eyes hold mine briefly as I pass by his section. I break contact to concentrate on my footing but I can feel his eyes follow me along with my family and the rest of the crowd and along with all those betting against or for me. I try to empty my face of emotion just as Katniss did as I take the final step and walk towards her but I can't seem to pull it off. Angry thoughts, shocked thoughts, scared thoughts bounce around the walls of my skull: just this morning I'd been with my family, spending hours of silence with my father and having my last meal in my home.

"Any volunteers?" Effie Trinket asks in her high pitched, happy voice. But I already know the answer. I look at Yarro in the audience but he shamefully is preoccupied by something on his shoe. After what Katniss did for her sister, it would still never be expected of him to take my place. As I said, what she did was a rarity.

A hush falls over the crowd. The mayor stands up and begins to read the long, dull Treaty of Treason that is required he do every year at this point. But even though I hear his voice, I'm not listening.

This year, in the 74th Annual Hunger Games, my job will be, not to just kill the other tributes in the arena, but I have to kill Katniss Everdeen: the girl I have only ever loved. It's either my survival, or hers. But then, who's to say I'll even get that far? What am I but a baker's son who frosts cupcakes and burns bread. But she? She hunts and kills for survival already. At least she has a chance.

But I will still try won't I? Of course. I can't give up that easily. I won't deny that I'll probably kill people when it comes down to it but if the Capitol thinks they can make me willingly a part of their games, they're wrong. When I die, I will die with dignity and pride. I will die as me. It is this thought that calms me ever so slightly. It is this thought that helps me accept my fate. I can't help but feel as though I'm accepting it rather quickly but as I glance over at Katniss' blank stares full of deep thought, I know what to do. If anything, I will make sure Katniss gets back to her family. It is she who deserves to come back. If I managed to help her once, I am determined to help her again.

The mayor finishes the Treaty of Treason and motions for Katniss and me to shake hands. I reach out and take her hand in mine, look her in the eye and give her hand a squeeze. In that brief moment that I hold her gaze, I see the intensity of survival. I see a determination unlike any other. Her soft hand sits in mine for but a second before we turn back to face the crowd as the anthem of Panem plays.

_You will come back Katniss Everdeen. I swear it on my life._

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_Thank you for reading._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The anthem is coming to a close. Everyone, in their silence, lets the shock of the events sink in but it never really does. With the final note still ringing in the air, Peacekeepers march us through the front door of the Justice Building.

The cool air that slaps us is refreshing and, only then do I realize how much I'd been sweating… because of the heat? No: because of nervousness. They put us in separate rooms. It's the most luxurious room I've ever been in what with its soft carpets and velvet chairs and couches but I can't help but feel like its beauty is trying to compensate for the final goodbyes to take place in the next hour. It's as if the last memory of District 12 can be somewhat sweet, knowing that my goodbyes took place in the most stunning room in the district.

The door opens and in comes Yarro, Chaff and my mother. Has my father already given up on me? Does he not want to say goodbye? I would have expected this from my mother, but my dad? No.

No one says anything. Yarro is looking at his feet and my mother, disconnected from it all, stands by the door. Chaff takes a seat next to me, puts his arm around my shoulders and tells me, "Be strong. Of all of us, you're the survivor."

"You know that's not true, Chaff." I say doubtfully.

"Maybe District 12 will have a winner this year," my mother ponders, quietly. We all look at her. Did she just encourage me? I can't believe my ears but before anything can truly be absorbed she then says, "She's a survivor, that one,"

Of course she doesn't believe in me but, even in those few seconds, I felt like there was still an ounce of hope. Chaff glares at her, unsurprised but still horrified at her comment and turns to me. "No!" he shouts, "You can do it. Just lay low, stick with the careers and… just… you have to do something!" he's standing now, exasperated. "You've got to come back to us, Peeta. You shouldn't be going. It shouldn't be you."

Yarro looks up with tears in his eyes. When have I ever seen him cry? "Peeta, I'm so sorry. I should have… I should have volunteered. It should be me."

"No," my voice is strong and clear. I refuse to have my memories of them end with this. I want to remember my brothers as the strong men they are, not the vulnerable boys that sit in front of me, crying. "Look, it doesn't matter. I was picked. That's what happened and there's no point in thinking about what should have been. You're safe and that's all that matters. I probably won't make it-" They try to interrupt, "No. Listen to me, I probably won't. Yarro, it's your final year so that means you're safe now. Chaff, look at me. I'll do my best, I promise. Please, say goodbye to dad for me. Mom," I walk towards her because she's the one I want to leave my last words with, "I just want you to know that even though you hate me and have hurt me so much in the past and don't believe in me, I still love you."

Time's up. The peacekeepers open the door ready to collect them. My mother looks at me, really looks at me but still doesn't say a word. It's not necessary. What I see in her eyes is what I saw this morning as she slept: a vulnerable, angry woman whose only problem is that she loves us. She, indeed, has an odd way of showing it but I wonder if it's merely a self-defense mechanism so that she doesn't ever have to be heartbroken when faced with situations such as this. These are difficult times.

My brothers shout, "No! Peeta, you have to win! We love you!"

The door closes before I can whisper my reply. Only then, do I realize that my eyes are filled with tears. I don't bother to wipe them away as I'm certain more will come anyway. I let my head hang as I clasp my hands together and close my eyes. It feels like a knife has been stabbed right through me.

The door opens and in comes my next visitor: Gale.

I stand up immediately, shock plastered onto my face.

"Peeta," he says.

"Gale?"

"I… uh, am sorry about the… turn of events." He carefully chooses his words.

"Yes uh… thanks." I don't know what to say or expect from someone who is nothing but a total stranger to me. There's an awkward silence that lasts for what seems like forever but can only really be a few minutes. Is that all he's here for? Apologies? Sorry if my girlfriend kills you? He looks at his feet just as Yarro did. Already, my heart aches so much for my family.

"Look, I don't know what to say but just…"

"Katniss. I know. I'll protect her as much as I can. I promise," I say.

His face says it all. He's conflicted: he should be wishing me luck but instead is almost asking me to help her win. But I don't need him to tell me that. I was certain the moment I shook her hand that I would get her back to her family. I guess I never really thought about getting her back to Gale. I can't say I'm angry at the fact but I just never thought about it.

He nods without making eye contact. Another silence.

The peacekeepers enter and he leaves. But before the door closes, he looks over his shoulder and says, "Good luck."

I give myself the next few minutes to let the last visit sink in. Gale Hawthorne visited me to ensure Katniss' protection. He must really love her. I know he makes her happy and her happiness is what I want so if it will make her happy to go home to Gale, so be it.

Again, the doors open and in comes Primrose and her mother. The Everdeens. This day will never cease to shock me. It feels like all of the surprises in life are being condensed into one day: the day I leave which is almost equal to the day I die.

The family of the girl I love and of the opponent I have chosen not to kill enters the room and awkwardly stands a fair distance from me. Prim is in a slightly oversized reaping outfit which probably once belonged to Katniss. Her face is red and puffy from crying. Silence seems to be a trend because as they stand in front of me with sympathy in their eyes, they have nothing to say.

I stand up, walk over to Prim and crouch so as not to tower over her. "I'll take care of her, I promise."

"Oh, Peeta. I'm so sorry." Mrs. Everdeen says quietly, on the verge of breaking down. I don't really know what she's apologizing for - the fact that Katniss may kill me or not save me or that I am entering the Games already willingly sacrificing my life without giving myself a chance? "You don't ha-… you shouldn't… We just wanted to wish you luck." Mrs. Everdeen says carefully in a quiet voice.

"You take care too okay?" Prim asks innocently, her eyes wide with concern.

"If I'm going to make sure Katniss makes it back, I'll be sure to take care of myself as well," I attempt to smile but it probably looks as though I'm in pain – which I am. It's nothing but a suicide mission but it's obvious that Katniss has to return. Even if I died, which I will, my family will still live on fairly well at least financially. They will survive. But Prim? Without her sister and her father and a mother who hasn't been seen to be supporting their family in the last few years, Prim will be lost. It's my life over a twelve-year-old girl's.

The peacekeepers enter once again to take the Everdeens out. They're a step away from the door when Prim runs back and hugs me one last time. She sobs into my button down shirt and whispers, "I'm sorry." I stroke her hair gently and tell her everything's going to be alright. I walk her to her mother who mournfully smiles at me as they leave.

There are more tears in my eyes now. I start wiping them away thinking my line of visitors has ended and that I should be ready to face the cameras once we leave the building when the door opens once more. My father enters, tears in his eyes.

"I thought you didn't want to see me," I say.

"Oh, Peeta." He walks over to me and has me drowning in his big arms, "I just had to do something. I just want to be strong for you,"

"Dad, I'm not going to make it."

Silence. At least someone is truly taking this into account.

"Peeta, you're a smart kid. You've just got to play your cards right."

"Play my cards right?"

"Just think of it this way," he says as he sits across from me and takes my hands into his, "The Gamemakers have to make sure nothing gets boring. They control everything and if they want someone to live, they will live. If they want someone to die, well they'll be dead before you can even name just one way they could do it. Think like a Gamemaker – what would you have to do to stay on their good side? All you need is an angle, an impression… something that will make you unforgettable."

I absorb this thought. Something that will make me unforgettable…

"Peeta, I want you to know that we love you. I love you. Don't let the Games change you into something you're not. You know what I mean," and I do. I'm not going to let them make me a piece in their game. "If you die, die a Mellark."

He takes me into his arms and I allow myself to break down and sob and cry. This is the last time I will ever feel safe. This is the last time I will see my father's warm smile or hear his soft voice or feel his tight embrace. We sit like this in silence for whatever time we have left together. And this time, this silence means so much to me. It is not empty or awkward but stands, instead, as a reminder of my yearly mornings alone with my father and the feeling of security, comfort and happiness.

The peacekeepers come and we walk together to the door. It is a quiet goodbye and I'm more than grateful for it. My last memory of my father will be of him being strong for me. He could have broken down and cried. He could have screamed his head off. But what good would that have done?

I hear him utter three last words before the door shuts, "I love you." I whisper my love for him knowing he can't hear me. But I know he knows.

The peacekeepers enter once again and this time they're escorting me out. I see Katniss being taken into the car but she doesn't see me. I am put in a car behind hers. I have never ridden in a car before. The seats are soft and there is air conditioning here as well. I take a look at myself through the hanging mirror in the front and I see that I'm as puffy and red as Prim was when she came to see me. I decide not to wipe it away. What's the point? I'm going to die anyway. I allow this short riding time to breathe, absorb and say my silent goodbyes to the only place I know as home.

We're at the train station in no time and, through the tinted windows, I can see cameras and reporters flooding the area. My door opens and I walk out. I keep my head down but can feel the eyes of Panem on me. I see Katniss near me but don't bother to look up. For the first time, I'm not excited to see her.

We stand for a few minutes in the doorway of the train and let them take their pictures and get their footage. It isn't long but it feels like forever before we are allowed to get in and the doors finally and mercifully close behind us. Immediately, I jolt forward. The train has already started moving and it's moving fast.

Having never been in a train, the speed takes me by surprise. But what shocks me more is the beauty and luxury the train holds. Its extravagance exceeds all rooms of the Justice Building put together by far. Each of us has our own chambers including a bedroom, a dressing area and a private bathroom with hot and cold running water. There are drawers filled with fine clothes and we are told that everything is at our disposal. Effie says to be ready for dinner in an hour.

I decide not to change and make my way to the dining area of the train where Haymitch is sitting and getting drunk. I sit down across him and, again, neither of us says anything. His dark hair covers his eyes though I already know they're closed. He's nothing but a mess. His hands reach forward for the drink but, finding nothing, his eyes open, he stands up and leaves calling over his shoulder, "I'm taking a nap if anybody needs me. Try not to need me," he laughs.

Whatever remains of the hour before dinner leaves me time for myself. I walk around the dining area unaware of what I'm doing as I think about everything that has happened today. It strikes me that this all could not have happened in just one day… in just a few hours even. My life back in District 12 seems more distant to me than the real growing distance between this train and home.

At this time, the families spared will be celebrating while mine will be in the small space behind the bakery with doors and windows closed sitting at a table set for four instead of five. My cupcakes will be their last reminder of me. The last pastries I frosted – will they eat it? Yarro may still be crying in his guilt and Chaff who is the type who doesn't really show much emotion may be staring into space. I wonder if my mother is thinking about my last words to her. No one will be eating tonight.

I think about my father and what he said to me: "All you need is an angle, an impression…something that will make you unforgettable."

What qualities do I have that can make me unforgettable?

I make a list in my head: I can bake. I can decorate. I love Katniss. Yeah, nothing that will work.

But then it hits me: I love Katniss. The Games have never had a love story embedded in it because… well, only one survives. Everyone's against each other. But if I actually show my love to her, will that help us? They'll have to keep us both alive for even just a while. It could work if I just express it but having kept this deep in me for the last so many years, I don't know how hard it will be to let it out.

As I let the idea develop in my head, I don't realize that time is passing fast and before I know it, Effie and Katniss are making their way to the dining area.

"Where's Haymitch?" asks Effie Trinket brightly.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap,"

"Well it's been an exhausting day," she says as her face relaxes and it is evident that she is relieved by the absence of my mentor and I can't say I don't feel the same.

Katniss takes the seat across from me, next to Effie Trinket. She has changed out of her wonderful blue dress and is sitting comfortably in a dark green shirt and pants. She's still so beautiful.

The supper comes in courses. A thick carrot soup, green salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, a chocolate cake. It feels like I'd never had food before once I indulge myself. Throughout the meal, Effie Trinket keeps reminding us to save space because there's more to come but I can't help myself. Never in my life have I seen so much food ready for me to eat even if you accumulated all the meals in my life.

"At least, you two have decent manners," says Effie as we're finishing the main course. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion."

I wouldn't be surprised. Everyone in District 12 doesn't have enough to eat and with everything laid before us I'm surprised I, myself, haven't started digging into my meal but I'm a baker's son. Manners were drilled into me by mother. I can tell this comment upsets Katniss as she puts the fork and knife down and begins to eat the rest of her meal with her fingers, thoroughly enjoying the meal set out before her. At the end, she wipes her hands on the tablecloth. I hold back a laugh but can't suppress a smile as I see Effie purse her lips tightly together. But I can't blame Katniss, she works for her food. Of all people, she is someone who would greatly appreciate it.

With the meal finally being over, it takes all my energy to keep the food down. I've never had my stomach so full before and I can see Katniss is trying so hard to do the same.

We make our way to another compartment to watch the recap of the reapings being held district by district and we see those who are chosen and the few that volunteer. I begin to focus on the kids stepping up onto the stages and their reactions to their fate.

It is extremely obvious who the Career tributes are, that is, those who are trained their entire lives for this event. They're strong, big muscled, cunning and skilled in many areas of combat. Their faces are calm but rigid as they take their rightful places on stage. They live to enter the Games. It is the only purpose they know of and while I can sympathize for their continuous dehumanization throughout their lives, I can only hate them for what they are to do in the arena. I glance over at Katniss and see the creases in her forehead and the intent and focused look of her face as she looks, unblinking, at the television screen. She's planning tactics, profiling and getting to know as much as she can from her opponents on screen. When District 11's tributes come on screen, I see a pained look in her eyes and when I turn to look at who's picked, I see a little girl who can be no older than twelve years old with dark brown skin and eyes. I can tell she reminds Katniss of Prim.

Lastly they show the events of the reaping at District 12. We see Prim being called up and Katniss volunteering and the silent salute, Haymitch falling off the stage and the commentators roaring with laughter as they perceive District 12 to be the tail end of Panem. It is then that I see me coming on stage quietly. It's obvious I didn't manage to wipe my face of emotion as well as I'd thought. Well, I suppose I can come across as thoughtful, maybe? A thinker? I don't know how those who have started betting will take me as but at least I didn't cry. I feel as though I had just watched a reshowing of another Games but it is odd to say that it all happened just today and that it happened to me.

The anthem plays and the program ends. Effie Trinket is fussing over her wig, yet again and says, "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior."

I laugh. Knowing Haymitch all these years, you would have expected her to realize that "He was drunk," I say out loud, "He's drunk every year."

"Every day," adds Katniss, smirking. It's as if Haymitch can be corrected with just a few helpful tips from the woman of media herself.

"Yes," hisses Effie Trinket. "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"

As if on cue, Haymitch staggers into the compartment, "I miss supper?" he says in a slurred voice before vomiting all over the expensive carpet. He falls into his own puddle of body fluids and the extent of which I need him overwhelms me.

"So laugh away!" says Effie Trinket. She stands up, walks around the pathetic man I must call my mentor and leaves the compartment. The silence that follows makes me truly realize that the Games are my new reality and nothing can stand in the way of survival, not even Haymitch Abernathy.


End file.
